


Compromised

by alnora



Series: Fragments [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Outing, Pancakes, Sam's still a jerk, Some Humor, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:30:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alnora/pseuds/alnora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place not very long after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/868435/chapters/1666966">Sound Life</a>. Kevin makes a trip to the bunker with some news, interrupting Dean's breakfast and, more importantly, a private moment. Sam's still a jerk, Dean's in a coma, and the pancakes are not for sharing. Don't bother telling Kevin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromised

**Author's Note:**

> Like all stories within this universe, there are references to the stories that came before it. I'd say that might clear up a few things, but since this is cracky, I doubt it will.

It was a sleep without dreams. With a proclivity for the brain to manifest fears, burdens and memories best locked away in a vault and launched into one of the corners of the universe, in such a vulnerable state, such nothingness was a balm. Good nor bad. No pain of seeing something unattainable nor the bloody sights he would view while awake. Pure unfettered rest; like a rock.

 

And a rock is what his body felt like as the cell phone beside Sam's bed rang. The world before him was a gossamer blur – or maybe his eyes were crusted over with sleep. Function ceased from the neck down. Oh, his limbs worked well enough, he just couldn't muster up a good damn to move them. Sam Winchester was the rock; his mind, body and spirit was that of the rock. It moved for no man, even a man calling him on his cell phone. Rocks did move for ice, though, no matter how it measured on the Mohs scale.

 

Well then.

 

You win this round, ice.

 

The caller would not hang up, so the only solution was to toss a limp arm out of the covers to answer it and hope the ice age would recede.

 

 

The bed was empty – Cas could feel that upon waking. The warmth of two bodies sharing blankets was missing, as was Dean's more unsubstantial presence: the radiating atmosphere of an enjoyable or more harkening dream, or the heaviness one felt in their entire body when someone was near.

 

On the nightstand the clock displayed a time not disagreeable with his lifestyle, but one that was avoided when work was slow, or in Dean's current case, a self-designated sabbatical. If a good night's sleep was to be had on one of those days he'd draw it out as long as possible, taking advantage of every possible second that he could. Sometimes Cas would stay the duration because he did not want to disturb Dean, he was rather comfortable himself, or Dean laid most of his body weight onto Cas, successfully pinning him down making any retreat met with a sour look and a bitter “You moved” once the human caught up with him. A grumpy Dean was an intolerable Dean, so he would stay put, tiny nudges and squirms attempting to rouse him.

 

The things he did. The things he put up with for the hunter. No, that's not entirely fair to say. He tolerated those quirks and inconveniences and annoyances because it was _Dean_. They made up the whole of him. That's just who he is and Cas loved every part of it, of what made up his past and present. Cas was an angel. If he wanted to leave on a whim he could very well do it. He could say as he pleased and do as he pleased with very little repercussion. But if the mortals taught him anything since his arrival, it would be that restraint is a virtue; just because you able to do something does not mean you should. Could he leave Dean to be somewhere else, doing what he needed to do ( _heaven_ ) rather than tag along with the boys or so Dean could have a few minutes longer to rest? Of course. Having him so close, skin warm and alive and breath against his neck all confirmation of reality, and giving Dean security in both downtime and during hunts... that was right. It was correct. Complete.

 

Dean was not over the nightmares and waking terrors completely, though everyday was progressive. From what he was told, those dreams concerning Cas -the ones brought upon by the dubbed other-worldy visitors- were becoming less vivid; brief flashes of imagery that were comparably easier to deal with than that of the several days prior. What remained was routine, visions that had plagued Dean long before Cas walked into his life. Nothing Cas could do would stop those from occurring, and not even the universe could correct it. Was the universe mending itself even the cause for Dean's progress? It may be as simple to explain as his own decision to let go. Dean had given himself to Cas while his self-preservation instinct screeched at him to stop, what are you doing to us, this is a vulnerability you cannot afford. There were enough demons roaming the plains of the man's head. Relieving himself of one could do nothing but good.

 

Cas would be there always to releasing him from his dread, even if only temporarily, nor would he pry into those dreams unless Dean wanted aid. He was being foolish of course, but it was a “man thing.” That must translate to stubborn and dogged.

 

Pilfering through a quaint dresser resulted in Cas pulling out a pair of blue pajama bottoms and a frequently used gray t-shirt. This was also something Dean was adjusting himself to: Cas clothing himself in Dean's outerwear and not tripping over himself from due to distraction. Still he needed a few moments to adjust, something he thought he did subtly but stood out to both Sam and Cas like a neon sign that read “My boyfriend's wearing my clothes, it's painfully hot, and I'm going to pathetically deny this.” Even the blind could see it. Yes. Getting much better.

 

Once dressed he debated briefly about if he should search Dean out, that maybe he wanted to be alone for the moment, not bothering to wake Castiel. As quickly as it was asked, it was decided that he didn't really care. Within a blink he was surveying the garage, vintage automobiles and motorcycles barely visible under murky orange lights that always remained lit. No need to turn on the main circuit. The Impala, only visible by reflection, rested in its place among the others (and surprisingly not sectioned off by velvet rope). Dean was home, meaning there was a high probability of him being “okay.”

 

Observatory. Library. Computer room. Empty. But the closer he moved to Sam's room, the more it became evident that Dean was in the kitchen. Cooking so early in the morning. Maybe he wasn't okay. Possessed. He must be possessed.

 

It was an olfactory assault the moment he appeared in the kitchen. The smell of fatty bacon frying on the stove coupled with a strong coffee that had been brewing longer than the food had been cooking. Dean's own mug stood by its lonesome on the bench-style table, no longer steaming. A small stack of pancakes rested on a plate near a griddle which Dean was pouring more batter onto, back draped in a robe turned to Cas.

 

He had a strong inclination that this breakfast was intended more for Dean himself and less for everyone else: He would have woken Cas to ask if he wanted any, and he would have waited for Sam to wake up, putting off the meal. This was all on a moment's notice, random as a late night snack. Everything made for his consumption, the other residents of the bunker reduced to the leftovers -if any- he left behind. That was not to say this is what Dean always did when taking on any meal duties; he took pride in others enjoying his creations, an exclamation of elated joy on his face after their first bite. Some days he could be rather covetous.

 

Moving to the stove, Dean flipped over several slices of bacon, mumbling something about the “mess” it made, presumably the grease popping onto the stovetop, and strode toward the table for his coffee. He flinched as he caught Cas out of the corner of his eye and huffed. “How...” Cas could make out a twitch in Dean's right eye when he took in the sight of Cas in what were his bedtime clothing. It probably reflected negatively on his character (but then again a lot did), but Cas's ability to fluster Dean, if only for a moment, was something of a source of pride from somewhere deep within him. Confusion won out on his face because he wasn't positive why Dean seemed so flabbergasted each and every time. Confusing, but encouraging.

 

“How, um,” he continued, taking a nonchalant step back that was far from dismissive, “how long you been standing there?”

 

“Not as long as you think I have.” Cas's eyes looked past Dean to the breakfast being cooked, then back to Dean.

 

“Yeah, that.” He continued to the table and grabbed his coffee mug. “I needed it.”

 

“You needed pancakes.”

 

Dean tossed his head back in frustration. “You and Sam, man, I swear.” Taking another sip of the warm liquid, the mug was placed back onto the table with a noisy clatter. “What don't you two understand. Look,” Dean explained as he put a consolatory hand on Cas's shoulder, “there are just some things a guy desires. Good drink, a cozy dwelling, the company of a beautiful woman, or a curmudgeon angel in my case – how you doin', babe?” he said with a sleazy drawl, sleazy as people Castiel had observed in bars during happy hour, and winked. Castiel resisted the impulse to rub away the facetious look on Dean's face. “And the other thing is specifically pancakes. Would you be so cruel a person as to separate a man from his dessert breakfast?”

 

“You should flip them.”

 

It took a moment for Dean to realize that Cas did in fact not answer his question but warned him that his food may be burning. With a yelp and “Motherfu-” being shouted with little volume control, Dean stomped back to the griddle hoping the flapjacks could be salvaged. “Always distractin' me... Make a cup of coffee or something, would ya?”

 

Which Cas obliged. He might as well. The longer he stayed the longer he could distract Dean. After his cup had filled ad turned to take a seat, he noticed the white of one of Dean's eyes on him, hardly visible above his shoulder. Dean knew he was caught and played it off like he had not, grunting so low he thought Cas wouldn't hear. Distracting the human had become quite the effortless task.

 

 

With the addition of an empty plate and pancake syrup (“Maple syrup is too watery, and having soggy pancakes is just as bad as having none at all”) Dean finally came to rest with a very pleased sigh.

 

Both hands cradling his mug, Cas pointed out, “The stack is bigger than your head.”

 

“What, don't think I can finish?” He grabbed three slices of bacon with his hand, taking a bite out of one before placing them on his plate. Castiel didn't doubt Dean could finish; never had he seen a human with such reverence toward food, who appreciated the very fact he was able to, and it downhearted Cas that it was yet against something else he could not share with him. And Dean's ability to relish flavor, the result seemed... pleasurable.

 

“I do. But spending an hour locked in the bathroom with stomach cramps to prove an imaginary bet seems to be, in my opinion, indecorous. Probably unpleasant.” He sniffed the air. Did bacon taste like it smelled? Not that it mattered; to him it was no different than the coffee he was drinking.

 

Dean brushed the comment aside, knowing that is exactly what would happen end denying Cas the right to gloat, and stabbed a couple layers of the breakfast to transfer to his plate. “You're just a little cranky I didn't wake you up to share my labor of love. You and Sam don't appreciate the majesty of a dessert breakfast. Besides,” he added, much more interested in pouring half the contents of the syrup bottle onto his plate, “I didn't eat last night, so I had no intention of sharing.”

 

Which was true. While Dean was recovering to the best of what was allotted to him during a time of instability, he would remember. Some things Cas knew of already -some visions, trepidations, remorse- while others he keeps to himself, in which some secrecy is deserved. Dean had shocked the both of them by being as open as he had been as of late, uttering any detail that might display him as weak of mind or spirit. And physically. Admitting to being frightened both by what he has seen and thought of in his head... Saying “I need you” without speaking. Love was something they had both acknowledged and abandoned years ago. They had moved light years beyond it. Dean _needed_ Cas with him, for comfort and companionship, and granting anyone access to that liability rattled him worse than most monsters could. Skipping a meal wasn't uncommon, and neither was the ravenous appetite that accumulated some hours later.

 

“I am not cranky, Dean.” But sharing the meal didn't seem all that unappealing, no matter how the food tasted or the texture (chemicals bonding, dissolving, solids liquifying through mastication) felt in his mouth. “I'm only concerned about your well-being.”

 

A mischievous smile crept upon Dean's lips, him placing down the fork and knife and folding his hands on top of the table. “How 'bout this. I promise to pace myself so I don't end up chugging Pepto like water, if you tell me right now that you like it.”

 

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

 

“Don't play stupid. I've been catching you looking at me like a bashful schoolgirl crushing on the boy down the hall. Just admit it. You li-ke it,” he taunted, voice as light as the air.

 

His posture straightened unconsciously. Oh now you're just giving yourself away. “I do not know what 'it' refers to.”

 

Dean observed him with the same smirk on his face in silence, letting Cas simmer uncomfortably. There was no cause for discomfort. There shouldn't have been any. It was... risible. Why even humor Dean with a reply? There was nothing to be gained by pointing out something as ludicrous as...

 

“You know how I feel about this.” That's right, feed his dementia.

 

“Oh yeah, I could fill a book the size of Deathly Hallows with how many times you repeated that it's what's on the inside the counts.” Dean's magnanimity was genuine, not like it had been. When not sulking his words had been a false sweetness, rotten like an fruit emancipated from its tree. Black, decayed. A true reflection of how he felt on the inside. “But I think there's been a change in that philosophy.” He leaned forward and whispered clandestinely. “You're totally hot for me.” Cas made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a cry for help, seeming only to egg Dean on. “It's the beard.” He scratched at his chin for emphasis.

 

Something he had been too distracted to do turned into an experiment. Personal grooming fell to the wayside some days before they returned home to Kansas: it wasn't all that necessary nor did he really give a damn if his whiskers grew out. So he let them. After becoming accustomed to it being there Dean decided to stick with it; maybe a little alteration in appearance would do him good. And then he noticed the observances Cas had been so swift to deny.

 

“And that's all it is, Dean. Facial hair.”

 

“That you're totally smitten with.”

 

“I'm not,” he huffed, trying to think of a word, “infatuated. Simply... noticing.” The coffee mug was drawn to his lips as casually as possible, intending to cover flaming red uncertainty.

 

“Noticing that you want to rub your face against me.”

 

“I assure you that is something I will not do.” After knowing Dean for years, on Earth and watching from above, Cas had yet to figure out why he says what he does, the logic behind it, if there was any at all. Where does this all come from, and why?

 

Dean had resumed cutting his breakfast into smaller portions and spoke with the certainty of a man who thought he could be comprehended with a full mouth. “'Course you will. It's in your nature as a cat to rub against shit.” Cas pinched his nose as Dean continued thoughtfully. “Marking me as yours, scratching your cute little head against me. Oh I understand clearly, like crystal.”

 

As mean as it was to even entertain, the manic-depressive Dean was far easier to handle. The mood swings he could handle and Dean would rather be alone then anyway. The more energetic and vibrant Dean reveled in harassing his company. Rather than play against him, resisting the teasing on all accounts, this time he'd follow him and hopefully disorient Dean to a point where he would quit. “You're right,” Cas admitted coolly. “What was I hoping to accomplish with denial, for something so petty? It's true that your physical appearance was not a deal breaker since you are, in the end, meat and bone and hair, not different than any other human. You're not unique on the outside.”

 

On the outside, something not to be omitted. Dean turned up his nose at being compared to such mediocrity, but took little offense otherwise.

 

“I'm guessing that mentality changed when we fucked.” He hoped Dean saw it, no matter how brief or poorly detailed, that night in his head, _felt_ it, for it was still relatively fresh in both of their minds. Judging by the fork he was holding abruptly scratch against the plate, Dean did. “You were more than the effervescent soul contained to a meat suit that I originally thought. That your...” He looked Dean up and down. “...outside was just as pleasing to me as your inside.”

 

The recovery was quick. “What I say. Hot for me.” Too quick, in fact, to not be forced.

 

Cas shrugged. “More or less. So, since this is uncharted territory for me, is it fair to be mocked for feelings that I am only now beginning to digest? To find markings upon your skin like scars and freckles, or the unruliness of your hair in the morning and think 'I like them' but not know why. Again, this is nothing unique; humans before and after you will look exactly like you. But because they are on _you_ , they mean something more substantial.” And that was the truth, every word. The flaws on Dean's soul and his preternatural fondness of them made Dean rise above the level of ward into the word neither of them spoke nor did they feel they had to. After feeling Dean rather than seeing him, his perspective shifted to reveal the shell, and this was a part of him no different than his soul or voice. Castiel's view of the human was an absolute truth, an all-encompassing fact. Every layer was revealed to him, and it was intimate in a way Dean or any other human could never perceive.

 

He wouldn't let Dean know all of this, of course. Not today. Right now the law of the land was an eye for an eye.

 

“So what you're telling me is that I'm perfect,” Dean smiled genially.

 

Cas returned the expression. “Just as much as I am.” _I want to be screwed up with you_. The perfect fit.

 

Dean was reduced a reddening mass of bashfulness which was the goal somewhat; just enough to end his teasing. A normal reaction to any type of coquettish confession, something that may never change no matter where their relationship led them. And that was fine by Cas. Truth resounded in Dean, otherwise there would be no reaction at all which was by far a worse fate.

 

Perfectly imperfect, they were, and a perfect time for Dean to notice two figures standing in the doorway, in which a shriek of continuous cuss words filled the room.

 

The face of someone who felt guilty for intruding could not distract Cas from the sparkle in Sam's eyes that hoped for something like this to happen, one that told Kevin to stay back and enjoy this domestic moment. “So, um... you make enough pancakes for the rest of us?”

 

Kevin bit his lip trying to contain himself, losing the fight in the end, and triumphantly exclaimed, “I knew it!”

 

 

“Aw man, I broke Dean. I broke him, didn't I?”

 

Sam leaned across the table to his brother who hadn't moved since he screamed. “For a couple minutes, yeah,” he scrutinized, observing the hollowed out look in his eyes.

 

“I didn't mean to.” Kevin pointed a finger at Sam, consternation already set in. “It was his idea! I wanted to turn around, but Sam, he's like a bear and blocked me from going back!” Face pleading for mercy, he turned to Cas. “You're going to smite me, aren't you?”

 

He truly did look repentant for intruding, and while Cas wasn't as dismayed as Dean, he understood why he was. It wasn't planned. Sam found out almost naturally, like he was bound to find out sooner rather than later. With the lack of privacy Dean and his brother had, Dean had probably assumed his relationship being found out as an inevitability and accepted it; Sam would find out so let him, whenever that happens. Outside parties they had little control over. They couldn't even prepare themselves. Well, Dean couldn't

 

Cas reassured him. “It's not your fault. And to a much, much lesser extent,” he peered sideways at Sam beside him, “his. None of us knew how Dean would react, though I think we all _did_ know it would be dramatic.”

 

“Law of the bunker dictates that there should be no public displays of affection within its walls. You break the rules and mental breakdown is your fate.”

 

“You sound very confident in the rule you only now conceived of, Sam.”

 

“That I am. Well, it's more of an unwritten law, really,” he pursed his lips innocently. “If Dean weren't incapacitated he'd back me up.”

 

“So that means if one day, in the very distant future, you happen to have a girlfriend-” Kevin stifled a laugh “-and we are still living together, I may also harass you and your significant other?”

 

Sam replied nonchalantly. “I guess. The moment we start talking about having sex and the many layers of our being, go ahead and knock yourself out.”

 

“You think Sam is going to regret saying that?” Kevin asked Cas conspiratorially, which had little effect since Sam was so close by.

 

“No.” Cas's expression was unreadable, blank and yet inquisitorial, as he took in the taller man at his side. The same look he gave most people. The same look that made most people want to back away as far as possible. “He will never be able to find a date to get that far.”

 

Sam wasn't so much lost for words as he was clueless as to how to arrange them in his mind to form comprehensible sentence. Most began with “You” and ended there. The dork with wings was pillorying him. Cas, as affable as a tax collector, was dating while Sam managed to scare off every date he's ever had. Just another pawn in fate's cruel design. But he didn't care too much about that anymore, not as much as he used to. Most days he knew he was better off. ( _So you envy Dean because he partnered with a non-hostile immortal._ ) And for Cas to use this sad state of affairs as ammunition didn't bother him at all, but ostensibly it had to. That was the name of the game. Deep down in that feathery brain of his held a sense of pride that he was dating, especially Dean, when Cas used that ammo against him, and because of that there was positively no way Sam could be virulent.

 

So he huffed and puffed to continue his show, but silently laughed shortly after, biting his lips and tucking his chin to his chest. Cas remained unchanged.

 

Kevin, on the other hand, needed an explanation. “You're not mad at Castiel? And... Dean's not going to flay me when he wakes up? I'd like to know if I'm going to die or Cas is going to die or _somebody_ is going to die today.” Sam and Cas slowly looked to him. “What? I'm feeling a little guilty! Over something Sasquatch did!”

 

“His hair is long enough,” Cas mumbled to the side.

 

“He's so feisty this morning,” Sam said condesendingly, giving a light nudge to Cas's side. “Little defensive over Dean, probably.”

 

What social cue was that? Cas ran statistics though his head. Rough prod was to desist, light was a nuisance but affable. Sam was not offended, but that didn't mean Cas was. So following that logic, he elbowed Sam back, but forgoing his restraint temporarily which ended up being more of a push, sent Sam sliding off the bench and onto the floor. “I'm not being defensive,” he said, unintentionally sulky.

 

“That's one way to contradict yourself!” Sam cachinnated, though he was touching the hip that landed on the floor. The bump didn't hurt, but it was certainly a discomfort now. It was amazing how Cas and Dean's characteristics were beginning to blend into one another. The truth was, more than likely, that they've always been that way and only now was the comparison clearer. Start talking about their feelings and they puff out their cheeks and hold their breath until the topic changes. Or you get knocked onto the ground after very little consideration.

 

And so their morning began. While Cas waved his hand in front of Dean's face in an unsuccessful attempt to rouse him, Sam noted Kevin eying Dean's breakfast like a man who had skipped a couple of meals. He urged the teenager to take a seat wherever he wanted (Dean being comatose and, for the time being, unable to attack him) as he retrieved plates, two for himself and Kevin, knives and forks, and placed them on the table. Kevin had voiced his concern about stealing the meal away from Dean, especially now, but Sam showed little remorse as he forked most of the remaining stack onto his plate.

 

“Trust me, the second he comes to, missing flapjacks are going to be the least of his worries.” A toothy grin. “From one Forbidden Knowledge keeper to another, welcome to the club, kid.”

 

With a title like that it was little wonder Kevin turned a shade lighter. It was a secret; it was _supposed_ to be a secret. He wasn't supposed to see that until they were ready, if they ever were. It scared Dean, scared him into silence, but like ice he'd melt eventually. Kevin felt like he had betrayed the older Winchester in a way. He had become close to this fractured family and while cursing his fate, he had come to accept it and in turn earned the respect of both of them. Although it was his damned obnoxious brother's fault for not announcing their presence earlier, it had happened and, like his fate, he would have to accept whatever words or books or axes Dean threw at him.

 

Sam knew Kevin was overreacting, and that was the point. Dean would come back home, a little hazy, take a look at Kevin and seal his lips like vacuum packaging. There was no threat of any arguments or beatdowns. Let the kid sweat a little.

 

Once back in his seat and coaxing Kevin into eating who, once started, only briefly came up for air, did Sam stop kidding around. Beside him the angel looked as inscrutable as always, and Sam had to wonder if Kevin noticed his clothing yet; he had to realize by now that there was no chance those were his. Dean's entire wardrobe may have very well been because he never once told Cas he couldn't. Like a girl wearing her boyfriend's oversized t-shirt. The imagery evoked was adorable.

 

“So Kev,” Sam implored after wiping his lips with a napkin, “before I ruined your life, I was gonna say that you're looking a whole lot better – healthy even.”

 

“He appears to be bathing regularly.”

 

“Yeah, that too. But I mean, it looks like you've gotten a good night's sleep or two.” His eyebrows furrowed. “Anything wrong with processing the tablets?”

 

The word “tablet” brought Kevin out of his food-induced craze. He swallowed a mouthful without properly masticating it before answering. Too eager to answer to have delays like chewing food. “That's why I wanted to see you guys, actually. Well...” He looked dubiously to Dean. No, no time for that. He'd accept his ass kicking later when Dean was able. “About two weeks ago, after I woke up from passing out, the tablet in front of me... It was just like reading a book.”

 

“You mean you could read it clearly?” If that's what Kevin meant... Dean, you dumbass, wake up.

 

“No,” Kevin articulated, and saw Sam's mounting confusion. “I still couldn't translate any part of it, but I saw it like any other word. I looked at it and my head didn't hurt, my vision wasn't blurry.” The look on his face was almost euphoric. “No sweating, no nausea. I felt normal again. _Healthy_. I was still tired, but I didn't feel lifeless. I thought I was going to cry on the spot, but I figured there was no way it would last. I couldn't just stop being the prophet. After a couple days and still no headaches, I did.”

 

Cas turned the coffee mug between his hands. “You've exhausted yourself before attempting to translate but still suffered from the effects of doing so. Your body recuperates very little. Even if it was due to exhaustion, you would have fallen unconscious.”

 

“You burn a candle out and it's gone for good, no second chance, right? That's what I thought. It was just gone, like it never happened. Like a year had never happened. You guys and angels and demons were just some messed up dream I had and for some reason I woke up in the middle of nowhere on a rusty ship. It was... strange, you know?” His voice lowered in mourning. “Remembering that there was a life outside of pain. To be inflicted with it for so long and to have it taken away so suddenly, I didn't feel like I was in the right body. Like I was borrowing somebody else. There's no possible way I could be okay.”

 

A life Sam could certainly attest to. Never did a day pass without a new bump or mark on his body; an ache in his muscles; a never-ending supply of blood painting across a fresh gash, never ending because no human can bleed so often for so long and still live. The food in front of him lost its appeal. “Do you still feel that way now?”

 

“Not anymore, no, but it wasn't that claustrophobic to begin with. I was cautiously optimistic for a week; the freedom was nice and all, but I still wasn't sure how it happened. As much as I despise what I am, I know the importance of it and what other people are willing to do to get to me. So I kept trying just in case with no changes.”

 

“You didn't think to contact us as soon as you noticed the changes?” Cas asked sternly, to Sam's ears almost fatherly, but considering what was at stake for him, it was not intended.

 

Kevin heaved. “Yeah, I know, definitely a dumb thing to do. I mean, now it is. But if I called you guys and said something was wrong, you'd... try to fix it, cure me of whatever the 'problem' was.” The venom fizzling in his voice said he saw it not as a malady at all. “By the end of the week, I didn't _want_ to be fixed. The tablet was nothing but a stone with scribbles carved into it, and I wanted it to stay that way.” He forced another forkful of food into his mouth to stop himself from raving any further.

 

“Something else must have happened,” Sam pressed once he saw Kevin was able to speak again. “You're a prophet. It would be like if Cas lost his mojo right this second. It happened because of something – someone.”

 

“Don't get too involved just yet.” Kevin rubbed his forehead and deflated. “It came back to me the other day. I'd check the tablet periodically for a status update and bam, felt like my legs were kicked out from underneath me. Just like it never happened.” That hurt. It hurt so damn bad.

 

As much as Sam's heart went out to the kid before him, his purpose, however unfortunate, was necessary. The energy it took to translate the tablets was killing him at a leisurely pace, erosive like sand blown against rock. Sam and Dean both knew from the very start how... how they used him and his certain demise because of it, either from starvation or dehydration or exhaustion or some son of a bitch demon snapping his neck. A job he had no say in, much like how one cannot help the genetics they are born with, no right to decline the position. That was Kevin Tran: high school student, prophet, and likely to die within the year.

 

“The fact still remains -Sam too felt the wind being forced out of his lungs- “that something happened. You can't just hiccup like that without a reason.”

 

“If Dean could be changed so dramatically without any unnatural abilities of his own, it's almost a certainty that Kevin briefly was unable to translate for the same reasons,” Cas assembled with the mien of someone who was sure that the people surrounding him knew what he was explaining. While Sam caught on not too long after, it was long enough to discompose him. Sam was caught under a meticulous gaze.

 

“This was their doing too, huh? It's such a weird story, I don't think you'd believe a word I said to you,” he said to Kevin after seeing the confusion in his face.

 

“After all this time and you still don't think I can't handle a little strange?” Kevin smiled, a small tug of his lips.

 

Sam recanted the events of nearly two weeks ago, leaving out some details but nothing vital. Nothing about how Dean was afflicted, but then Sam did not know the true severity of it. Castiel knew precisely the parts Sam kept away, and the parts Dean had kept away from him. Sometimes, periods that seemed to have no logic behind them, the older Winchester brother would open up to him about not only the dreams that plagued him but the waking dreams, ones that were as vivid and real as the hand in front of his face while he did everyday activities. Their frequency lessened as days went by, but at their height, they rocked Dean. His voice would never betray him, either not speaking at all or plainly leveled, but his body could not camouflage the despair he felt inside. Sometimes he would stay with Dean, not straying far but not touching him either, leaving the human to collect himself. Other times he'd repeatedly moan _I'm in hell, this is hell_ and would not push away when Cas held him and reassured he was not.

 

It was a far-fetched tale, a little strange even for them. Curious omnipotent aliens (“God-like, not gods,” Cas was quick to elaborate, still defensive about his father), infinite universes – Dean appeared to be excited about dragons still existing somewhere, monsters' behaviors being altered pro tempore, including Dean and Cas, which was likely the reasoning behind Kevin's loss of skill. Cas shifted when his name was brought up. His whereabouts and, most importantly, his activities during his time loss were still a mystery.

 

“But why Dean? Other than being a hunter, isn't he a normal human?”

 

“It's our bond,” Cas answered, as proud as Kevin had ever heard him. You could almost feel the enchantment in his voice. Sam looked aside before Cas could catch him gagging.

 

Kevin bit his bottom lip to prevent himself from laughing. “Are you sure that's all? How can you be sure the connection is the cause?”

 

“Whatever was bugging Dean was... fine tuned to him.” A glass of orange juice was drained, going smooth and refreshingly cool down his throat. “Cas unsuccessfully dragged me out of hell and I'm not bonded to him. I mean his touch was so inappropriate my soul couldn't return to my body due to the shame.”

 

“Your weight was too substantial to lift,” Cas said clearly, hoping Sam would take this brilliant hint and shut up.

 

_They tease me because they're jealous._ “Yeah, yeah... But Dean and Cas, I'm not sure. Saying 'bond' sounds cute and all – it seems physical now and not metaphorical, if we're sticking with this theory. There's still no proof to be seen.”

 

Cas rose from his seat to return to the coffee maker and spoke to what may have been to himself. “Most magics cannot be seen. Say archaic incantations, grind and mix exotic ingredients into a bowl and through the very act of magic itself, magic happens, and the intent of your spell is made manifest.” Less than a cupful remained. How disappointing. Yes, Kevin may have needed the drink more, but that did nothing to soothe the disappointment. He poured it anyway and sat back down again. “You don't know how that specific mixture satisfies that specific goal, but it does. You don't see the chemical and molecular reactions as they happen in that bowl or how sound waves manipulate the air, but they do. There may be no 'proof.' Something that I didn't foresee happened in hell when I saved Dean and...” He lowered his head regretfully. “I didn't know it would have such an adverse effect.”

 

“How could you?” Kevin reaffirmed. “Something like that had never happened before. Maybe it wasn't even supposed to.”

 

“According to our new long distance friends, it wasn't. Their little knock on the door ended up punching a hole through it and only now is it being repaired. We're not even sure if this universe can be put back to where it was before.” Which in Sam's mind sounded like it could be a very fortuitous thing if not for so many unknown variables. “Good” and “evil” are subjective and questionable. “Dean's on the mend – well, he was; you're able to translate the tablets again, demons and monsters are coming back to their normal dickbag ways. Doesn't mean it'll last, nor does it mean they'll be at one hundred again.”

 

_Angels, too_ , Cas begrudgingly kept to himself.  _Not only monsters and demons..._ His family. The confusion broadcast on angel radio which he could not turn off, the part of his life he had given up for Dean -to  _be_ with Dean- could never be done away with. So they were taken by surprise just as much as he and every supernatural being and the humans that hunted them were. That was none of his concern anymore. Recognizing the voices, hearing what some had done around the world. Unspeakable violence, acts of tremulous feral animals backed into a corner. Unlike Castiel, most were aware of the metamorphosis, their very essence betraying them. And worse, there was no safe haven to be found. Angel problems are angel problems, he would repeat to himself. Unless they engage directly... leave them to settle their issues. Castiel had caused enough problems with the defense of good intentions.

 

“What happens if they're not? Like everything you hunters know about the things you come in contact with or kill or make alliances with: how to take monsters down and spells, that journal your dad left you two. Will it be” -Kevin snapped- “just like that, start a new game? Oh god,” he grimaced, “I hope not. We'll be more screwed than normal.”

 

“We can hypothesize until something happens. Or not. No book or ancient wisdom can offer help to us. We're on our own until then, left to treat our wounds and deal with whatever happens next.” A shrug. “Or not.”

 

“That's very zen of you, Cas.” Sam raised his empty glass. “Que sera, sera. Kick back until we see a little smoke.”

 

“I can't tell if you're being sarcastic.”

 

“Not this time. I know, it shocked me too. But you're right. If the universe is rebooting, you can't do much until the light stays solid.”

 

“And we'll know it's ready when Crowley calls me, asks me what I'm wearing and how far along on the exegesis of the tablets I am.” Kevin said it without acrimony, although the dread remained. Death, taxes and Crowley returning were life's only guarantees. A true zit on the face of life that bastard is. “You guys haven't heard anything from him?”

 

“Just as much as you have, which it a little troubling.” Sam scrunched his nose. “The fact that we're worried Crowley hasn't made an appearance is troubling in itself. Like dealing with him personally is easier.”

 

“Really,” Kevin chuckled. “What the hell is wrong with us?”

 

Cas answered dismally, “Absolutely everything.”

 

They couldn't help but laugh. As usual, Cas had taken the comment more seriously than he should have, and he was so mawkish, so maudlin, and depressingly honest, it seemed like a natural thing to do. Another joke at his expense, though not intended to be one. Cas wanted to respond with “But it's true, this is no laughing matter,” but knew with absolute certainty that they would continue if not laugh harder. So he waited. _And waited_.

 

“So, nothing crazy happened to you?” Kevin asked once they both quit looking at Cas and giggling.

 

“No– ”

 

The sluggish movement coming from beside Kevin drew his attention away. Palms pressed to his forehead, Dean looked groggily around the kitchen and back to the men at the table with him. He was greeted with a wary wave from Sam, an uncertain Kevin, and a neutral “Hello, Dean” from Cas. As badly as Sam wanted to respond with “He didn't go anywhere, you dork,” he didn't. He was more interested in what Dean had to say.

 

It took Dean a moment of glazed-over staring to remember Kevin now knew he and Cas were dating, and found out in one of the most gag-educing ways possible. Below sex, but not far enough. Kevin looked away as Dean whined. He wasn't ready at all for this. People knowing... One day of course it would be fine; Sam knew and that's one more person he even thought would. It wasn't even that big of a deal, he remembered. It was early in the morning, just like today, and it just happened. Natural. But to do so in such a way to Sam felt more like a game or a joke. Sneak into Sam's room, steal the laptop, he comes into our room to see if we have it, which we do, not suspecting to get an eyeful of Cas nearly naked watching a movie in bed with me. Definitely a joke he would never see coming.

 

Why? Why was telling (more like showing) Sam so much easier than Kevin or anybody else for that matter? Sam would judge less critically? That wasn't certain. If anything, Dean's brother should have been harsh with him. Their relationship was doomed the moment it began. Anyone, anything could see that. A rebel angel, a notorious human at war with both humans and monsters. Sam was the brains of the team, right? He should know this as an unparallelled truth. But he said nothing. Once the shock wore off some hours later, Sam looked... almost relieved. Like it was a good thing instead of guaranteed doom and gloom. Why?

 

Well, now Kevin knew, no backsies on this, and the only cure for his own shock was several days in solitary confinement with as much beer as he could carry. Cas wouldn't like it when he warded the doors, but this was the only answer. He whined again.

 

Wait. The plate that only minutes before held soft, pillowy, warm and delicious homemade pancakes was now empty. “My...” The syrup-streaked flatware in front of both Sam and Kevin were also empty. People he had no intention on sharing with. Dean should have been incensed. Instead he felt crushed, his sandcastle destroyed by the tide. “My pancakes...” Who knew getting outed could make a guy so emotional.

 

“God damnit Sam, you told me he wasn't going to notice!”

 

“Your error was believing Sam in the first place,” Cas commented eruditely, handing his still somewhat warm coffee to Dean who needed the drink much more.

 

Sam had said something back to Cas, something snide to be sure, but Dean couldn't hear it. He was pretty sure he caught Kevin's voice also, which sounded like it came from a different room. Muffled, distant. For the fraction of a second it took his fingers to brush against Cas's, the external world unfocused and internally one thought floated in his head. He doesn't care. The eyes of the man who didn't flinch or even blink when Kevin and Sam found them looked into his, perplexed when Dean overreacted like he did which was overcome by tolerance. Cas, maybe angels in general, viewed love on an entirely different spectrum than human. Love is love, the same way black is black and north is north. Cas never felt and would never feel ignominy due to that. Why should he be embarrassed about the choice he made, one he had no regrets in making?

 

An emotion reduced to its purest form. “ _This is mine. Most of the time I don't understand what he is thinking and why he acts the way he does, but he is still mine._ ”

 

Cas loved him. Why should anything beyond that matter?

 

Kevin tuned back in; Sam tuned back in. The atmosphere changed into something rather like a home. Another person's presence warmed it, even if they did happen to eat his breakfast. Dean's stomach was still knotted from earlier so that wasn't a concern anymore. It might be later. He'd have to lock himself in his car to eat that meal. Vultures. All of them, vultures.

 

The whisper-light touch of Cas's fingers against him still tickled against his skin.

 

_Give me some time, Cas,_ he smiled inwardly.  _I want them to know. I want everyfuckingbody to know._


End file.
